Loaded Gun
by Marilyn Lowell
Summary: "But I do scare you, John. I see it in your eyes" John is left to protect his friend from the madness that threatens to consume him. He must protect Sherlock from himself, or die trying [probable johnlock]
1. Chapter 1

John

At 1:32 in the morning I am jolted awake by his violin. It's a poor mask. Sudden as his song started it ended and I can hear him muttering to himself. This was clockwork to me, listening. Tonight there was something different. Heavy.

I lurch out of bed. I hear the lock box open. I stand now and throw my door open, a loud enough bang to startle him. I stand in the darkened hall and watch him.

Sherlock jumps and stares at me like a trapped animal. I know he can't see me, but I can see him and the thing in his hands. Rage burns in me, a betrayal I knew would happen. He fluidly regains composure, running his tongue over his lips in a gesture that can only be seen as… nervous. He lets out a strangled laugh and runs a painfully beautiful hand through his hair. He knows I've caught him but Sherlock doesn't get nervous or intimidated. It was only nights like this that you saw the human in him at all.

"John, don't be so dramatic. You startled me." The madman says, staring longingly at his prize. "You want tea?" he inquires.

"You put that bloody thing down now" I bark at him. Sherlock shakes at my voice, a considerably alarming sign for the usually stoic sociopath. "Chamomile it is" He answers for me and puts the object in the pocket of his jeans, unwashed for three days now. I move toward him and he absconds through to the kitchen. Following him I persist. "Holmes, I said put it down. Actually you can put it back in the lock box." I cast a glance over my shoulder. "How'd you get into that anyway?" I asked, though I knew he'd turn it around and make me sound dumb.

"I watched you open it. You don't do a good job of hiding numbers, John." His eyes graze my body in a queer and uncomfortable way. "Or much of anything really" He pouts and turns to the unboiled pot. I growl out of anger. "Put. It. Back" I command. My partner rolls his eyes. "John, I don't see why it means so much that I-"

"Doesn't matter" I dead pan

he grumbles. "I am a big boy, John" Sherlock says with caustic contempt. "You are a mildly unstable high functioning sociopath" I shoot back at him, but we both know it just rolls off him. "You are also going on no sleep for almost four days." He purses his lips. "My sleep is of no concern to you!" he sighs. I arch an eyebrow and bitterly reply "Bloody hell it's my concern, you're my flat mate." I can't rip my eyes from his pocket.

We're both shocked by the wailing of the tea pot. Sherlock smiles and pours two cups of tea. He puts a sugar cube in his, but leaves one out of mine. I see him shaking. I approach him from behind and see his lips moving in what looks like a prayer but I know isn't one. His eyes dart around sightlessly. Subconsiously I place my hand on his shoulder.

"Watson, stop it. Don't pity me." He hisses. "I don't pity you" I swear. "just give it to me." My friend sets his green eyes on me, harsh and burning and infinetly pained. "Why does it matter if I have-" I cut him off. "Give me my goddamn pistol or so help me-"

"What?" Sherlock antagonizes. He turns and pins me, his height a clear advantage. "What would you possibly do? You wonder why I keep people at bay? IT'S BECAUSE THEY ONLY WANT TO CONTROL ME!" he shouts in my face. The smell of unbrushed teeth mingles with a scent I don't associate with Holmes. Alcohol. I lock eyes with him. Slowly, I pull my military rifle from his pocket and move out from under him. As I cross the flat he stays staring at the wall. I throw the gun in the metal box and slam the door shut. "I have never tried to control you. Only keep you safe" I say simply

He mutters something incoherent. I look over at him. He was falling apart like this more often. He tore the flat to pieces most every week now. Nights like this were less frequent but were becoming more severe. I had to hide the gun to save him and every time it reminded more and more of life with Harriet.  
Sherlock still hadn't moved. He draws in another tight shaky breath. After a minute he lets it go, but blinks rapidly and I have to stop what I'm doing to make sure I'm seeing this right. Sherlock is crying?

"Sorry, John" He whispers. "I shouldn't become so…unhinged around you. I know I disturb you." I am taken aback by the apology. Sherlock only apologizes when something bad is about to happen. I watch my companion closely, the lankiness of his body that had begun to look hollow. He was graceful where others would be awkward. Here though, vulnerable and closed off, he was just Sherlock. "Don't apologize." I tell him. He nods and sits down with his tea. Street lights outside paint his gaunt cheeks orange. His eyes take in the wonder of London as if he were passing an unknown, unremarkable city on the highway or seeing a place from a book. Wistful but disconnected.

"Well then, I'm totally knackered. Goodnight." I say and turn off to my room. "But I do scare you John. I can see it in your eyes." He says more to himself than anything. I look over my shoulders one last time. I don't say anything, just shoulder the depression and go to my room. Its 1:40 am. I know when I wake up he'll be gone. Just like always.


	2. Chapter 2

John

The pain in my leg wakes me up around five. I grit my teeth and sit up. Waves of pain radiate in the whole room. I fumble for my pain pills on my bedside table, choosing to down them with a half depleted glass of brandy. Slowly I roll my knee, then pull myself to my feet. I was still above limping for the time being but it was getting worse.

I venture from my bedroom down the hall and to the living room. The lock box hangs open but my hand gun is still in there, unmoved. Sherlock's stuff lays everywhere, as always, still there. It was trapped in a perpetual state of half finished. Stumbling but not falling I make it to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Turning, I attempt to support my weight on the counter behind me. Between liters of unidentifiable liquid on the kitchen table a pile of unread post threatens to upset. I haven't read anything since his death. I would not be confronted by people condolences. The only person I kept in contact with was Mrs. Hudson and that was merely out of need. Yes, Molly popped by on occasion to fill me in on how things had been going or Lestrade tried to interest me in a pint but it was all for naught. I was simply too terrified. It all made me think of him.

The kettle howls and I pour myself a cup of breakfast tea. This morning I brave a glance into the fridge and rescue an apple after ascertaining it could be consumed. Without grace I make it to my arm chair. It is still facing Sherlock's previously occupied seat. There is no tea cup on the table or window sill. It is not in the sink. It won't be in his undisturbed wont be anywhere but my own personal hell. The dark blue mug, chipped in the corner of the handle, emblazoned with the name of a company long since closed won't be anywhere but the dark and battle frought crevices of my mind. A shudder passes through me like a shockwave. Most morning went like this: I woke in pain, poured a cup, feigned normalcy for a few minuets, the come to terms with the fact that I hallucinated saving Sherlock yet again. In shock, I stare at whatever the focus was of the previous episode and realize it never moved.

Today I avoid looking at the weapon. Now I am forced to take in his armchair. The cushion is worn from my friends constant movement. The finish of the wood design on the arms is worn out and has been craving restoration since I knew him. His favorite pillow is leaking stuffing from a corner, discretely turned into the chair. I do nothing but watch as cloudy dappled sunlight prys its way in through the blinds. It softly grazes where his shadow had been the previous night. I take it in all at once and not at all. I lurch to my feet and run, suddenly agile, to the sink. I get sick and dispel nothing but acid, having avoided food for this very reason. Heartache cuts deep into my chest. My mornings often went like this: come to terms with my hallucination, relive every violent pain I've ever experienced, get sick, implode, pick myself up again and do something. I castigate my weakness as I lean, helpless and vulnerable, over the sink. nothing more happens and I let myself pause for breath.

around now, considering it was yet again Thursday, Mrs. Hudson climbs up the stairs and greets me with some pastries she "accidentally" splurged on. We pretend she didn't hear me wake screaming from whatever nightmares plagued me and I didn't hear her sobbing when she thinks I've fallen into whatever brief sleep I can manage. As long as we can deny our demons, they don't exist in the daylight. I can hear her shaky gait rattle on the steps and I compose myself. Quickly i wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. I note I spilled my tea in my haste and find a relatively clean rag to cast on it. I'm mopping it up when the land lady lets herself in.

"Ah, good morning, John." she chimes with a convincing smile. "How are you this morning?" I right myself and throw the damp cloth on an nondescript pile of stuff. I take in her kind face, cut through with wrinkles I couldn't possibly keep count of. Her smile, though warm, looks as if it's been cut from a magazine and pasted on her face. Her once laughing and cajoling eyes were dim. I wouldn't be shocked if I was a reflection.

"I'm...alright" I tell her and gesture to a clear space on the counter. "You can leave them there. Kettles still hot if you'd like a cup" I offer. Mrs. Hudson nods. "Tea would be lovely" she responds. Following her, i root around in the cupboards and find the pink daisy cup I set aside every week. Mrs. Hudson, insisting on poring her own tea, settles down by leaning on the wall. her eyes tear through the mess of the place. I can't read what she's thinking and again curse myself for my inability to think like Sherlock. She tisks her tongue as I stand opposite her.

"Love, you have certainly let this place go to the dogs." The old woman remarks. I nod. "Cleaning up some of this junk will do you good, I promise." She continues. Every week I always promise her it will get cleaned and yet I can never move past restoring it to the level of clutter it was that day. It was like I was forever caught on the same timeline, almost verging on self imposed retrograde amnesia. Today I decided to be honest as I sputter out "It will always be too much, Mrs. Hudson." She looks up from her cup with a sad smile. "I know but even we have to move along sometime, John. It's not healthy" With that wisdom she nibbles at her jelly doughnut.

My mornings often went like this: Pick myself up and do something, swallow something, chat with Mrs. Hudson, vow to carry on, carry on till she goes, remember Sherlock, forget Sherlock, fight Sherlock, lose Sherlock, miss Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson suggest for me to eat something, maternal force practically pliable in her voice. I allow her this victory every week where I once used to fight her. It was something for her to hold onto to.

We small talk. She banter with me about the current celebrity gossip and the week long rainstorm. She mentions something about some rowdy tenants, careful not to mention my own infractions. I tell her about my fruitless quest for a job, not mentioning it's fruitless because I haven't left the flat in days to follow up. We smile and nod and then oh, dear look at the time, Mrs. Hudson must dash. She smiles and cups my face motherly.

"Not your housekeeper, dearie." Mrs. Hudson chimes. I nod at her. She saunters down the stairs and I close the door on her form. I face the apartment and make my weekly resolution of cleaning. With that I turn and put the box of sweets in the fridge. I land in front of my laptop and pull up my blog. It's been dormant for months now. i don't dare write an entry about my hallucinations lest I be deemed unstable or made. I stare at my reflection in the laptop screen. To continue my change I type a paragraph but delete it. I only leave on sentence, but do not post it. As I turn from my laptop my words bore into my back

I miss him


	3. Chapter 3

John

The only thing I could do was sleep. Staying awake was painful. I lay on the lone leather loveseat and curl in on myself. Now I hear the telly turn on downstairs, Mrs. Hudson moving around. I think about her goading me to move one and yet I feel I will never be able. Why I was so obsessed with him I'll never understand. We knew each other for only a matter of months in which he endangered my life countless times. I should have never gone back after he ditched me in Brixton that first night. But i went anyway, even after his insufferable brother kidnapped me. When I was nearly killed by Chinese black market Overlords I still came back to the flat with him. That night he tried to drug me with sugar and locked me in the lab I went home with him again. I followed him like a pet. Why?

I roll on my back and stare at the water stained ceiling. My thoughts roared through my head. Why, why, why? I grit my teeth and press my fists to my temples against my growing headache. I fall into a dream where I am trapped in a room with two doors. Laying in a coffin the middle, Sherlock looks peaceful and alien. Suddenly both doors fly open and Soldiers thunder in, waves of heat and sand follow them. They circle Sherlock and take aim. at the first gunshot I wake screaming "Stop!"

My t-shirt is stuck to my heaving chest and after my fear clears up I find myself on the ground. The clock on the mantle reads 3pm. I mutter to myself about sleeping later then I wanted. When I stand i hear a clatter from the kitchen. My already hyper senses come to a point. I make my way quietly to the lock box and grab my gun.

"Who's there?" I call out. The rummaging pauses then continues. I peer through the arch. Considering that the blinds were pulled I couldn't see much, but I could see the shadow of a man going through the fridge. I take aim and cock the gun. The man stops and turns. He throws on the kitchen light and I see before me is Mycroft.

I sigh and point the gun down. "What the hell are you doing in my flat? and my fridge?" I demand angerly. Mycroft smiles greasily. "Ah, John, dream pleasantly?" he asks and pulls a chair toward him. I grit my teeth.

My croft pouts at my silence. "Your land lady let me in," he said. "Terribly nice woman" Mycroft inspects his nails. I don't say anything. He arches an eyebrow and drops his pout. "I assume you want to know why I'm here, but I think we both know why." he drones on. I tighten my grip on my gun. My mouth goes dry in an instant.

"S-Sherlock?" I stammer. The older brother's face is unreadable. "Oh, don't disappoint me John. Think bigger." he taunts. "Are you...are you offering me a job?" I throw out. Mycroft claps condescendingly. "Yes, it's a matter of great-"

"No." I turn my back and slide into the armchair. Mycroft tisks. "John, you never hear me out." he whines. How Sherlock put up with him, I'll never fathom. He comes and begins to sit opposite me in Sherlock's chair. Before I can think about it I lurch to my feet and shout "Don't sit there!" Mycroft and I stare at each other and something dawns in his eyes. I clear my throat and look away, ashamed of my actions. "Sorry, I'm terribly sorry. That's uh-That's Sherlock's chair." I add. I sink back into my armchair. The politician stands and paces behind me. I feel threatened and cornered. Sherlock, or rather his apparition was right. I never was good at hiding things.

"You cared very much for my brother, didn't you?" He asks. I don't respond. "yes, very deeply." Mycroft pauses. "Almost...loved him, perhaps?" and there was the accusation, the one everyone had on their minds. The one I had no answer for. He comes around to stand in front of me. "Did you, Dr. Watson? Did you love my brother?" he leans down to look me in the eye. "No-no more than a friend." I sigh and turn away. Mycroft giggles, actually giggles. That bastard.

"If that's all, Mycroft, you can go."I tell him flatly. He looks taken aback. "But, I need you for this-" I shake my head. "i don't take cases these days." I stand and open the door. "Go" I order. Mycroft sighs, resigned. "Very well, but you will be hearing from me" he says and walks slowly down the stairs. "Good day, John" He calls. I slam the door.

* * *

Mycroft

The door at the top of the stairs slams behind me and I grimace. It was worse than I had anticipated. John alone was a barely managing mess. he looked like a common bum, unshaven and dodgy. his muscles he had kept in such good condition were strung out. Not soft, they were gone. His hair needed cutting and the smell of brandy rolled off him like a wall. The flat was still a mess, more so then when my brother resided there. Uncontinued experiments, rubbish, and empty glasses piled everywhere. It smelled like a frat house after finals.

It was a museum. John had dedicated the flat and his life to Sherlock. It was pathetic and worst of all Sherlock was right.

I fish in my suit for my mobile as a car pulls up. Sherlock picks up as I slide in and shut the door. He doesn't say hello. Instantly he's bombarding me with questions.

"What's he like? How's the flat? Did he take the case? What about my violin?" I hold the phone away from my ear as my brother ridiculously shouts "Mrs. Hudson, what of her? Are the windows clean? Did he put the kettle on?" I grit my teeth and bark "Shut up!" his insistent rattling stops. "John didn't take the case." I say simply and watch London pass beside me. "The flat's messy and he put the kettle on but didn't have any. In the fridge there's a fresh box of pastries but he doesn't look like he's been out for weeks so I can only assume Mrs. Hudson brought them" There's a tisk and I pause in my report.

"Ah, My ignorant brother, never assume only deduce." Sherlock says. I wait a beat and continue. "another thing" I add. "he smelled like a bar." I can practically hear the shock in his face. He makes a kind of incredulous gurgle.

"John doesn't drink. He's not that kind of person" Sherlock says. "Clearly you don't know him like you think you do." I conclude as the car lurches to a stop in my driveway. "Now I'm going back to bed. I'm on holiday for god's sake." I thank the driver and get out. "One more thing. He nearly killed me when I almost sat in your chair. Mean anything?" I ask. "Mycroft," Sherlock says after a few minuets. "have a good holiday" He disconnects. Worry settles in my head. Did it mean something? I sigh and shake my head. I long ago learned to leave the mysteries and doubts to my brother. He would handle them. He always would.


End file.
